


bleed my own

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Feminization, Guilt, Incest, M/M, Maggots, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam in a Skirt, Sexuality Crisis, Smoking, Sort Of, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, Vomit, motel sex, spit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:02:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25532551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: Blessed are those whose physical being matches their internal rot, for they will be made sacrifice. They will be lifted to the heavens, their blood kerosene for living fire.You believe it.Or, you enjoy the thought of being lifted, of being burned.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	bleed my own

You're dreaming. You see Sam standing in a cornfield. You see him disappear into it. You run forward, trampling the stalks underfoot, but no matter how long you run, how sure you are that _this_ row is the one that's hiding him, you never find him. In some iterations, you find him bloodied and broken, limbs bending in impossible ways, unrecognizable to the boy you know who's all dimples and rose pinks. You wake up as if it's a premonition, shaking Sam awake, pinching him, proving that he's real and in front of you and not a shimmering hallucination.

*

There's a blowfly in the motel you're in. You figure you're the cause-- decayed matter attracting worms, blood-drool attracting flies. You look over at Sam while he sleeps. He's real. He's real. You look at him and you think about opening his throat like a cacoon, seeing what spills out. You think about sewing his skin into yours. You think about a suicide pact. You think about flaying yourself apart, leaving your skin stretched and dry for Sam to use as a blanket.

You've spent your whole life, and the past handful of years in particular, watching over him, selling your soul for him, going to Hell for him. You don't feel any more secure in how intent he is on sticking around. You're family, blood, you're intertwined in a way you could never be with anyone else, but-- Sam is used to running. Sam ran from home, ran from university, ran from _you_ countless times.

Cas likes to say that you two have a whole prophesied future together, and you know he thinks that's reassuring, but both of you have defied fate (or, created your own fates) simply by way of survival. If there was one thing guaranteed it was Sam trying to escape fate. But Cas wouldn't understand, soldier of the Lord, etc., which was _fine_ you just needed him to _stop talking_ about Sam. You needed him to stop trying to understand.

*

You're drawn to the cases where people are wholeheartedly convinced they're doing the work of God. The cases where people are so lost in whatever worldview some charismatic fuck has spoonfed them. You envy that level of gullibility. 

In the world you live in, a monster is behind every corner, under every bed, behind every shower curtain. You could not, with any stretch of your imagination, believe you're doing God's work. God's work does not involve being knee-deep in shit, and blood, and death. You find it hard to believe in a god at all (but there's Hell, and Cas, and there's _Sam_ )-- A servant of the Lord does not look at his brother and see the only thing he could ever fully love. A servant of the Lord doesn't look at his brother and see a sunrise, doesn't consider telling every person and monster to fuck off so they can leave and never return (just to save him, just to have him to yourself). A servant of the Lord doesn't stare at his brother while he's sleeping, doesn't trace his cheek with his middle finger, doesn't lay his hand on his brother's forehead and mumble a prayer.

To be fair, cult members aren't serving the Lord either, despite what they believe. At least you're aware of your own stench. 

*

You pick up smoking. Always in secret, always while Sam is fast asleep. You step out of the room, sit on the crumbling little curb outside, and light a match. Your mind's eye is a slideshow of all the worst things that have happened to you and all the worst things that could possibly happen. You're back in hell. Your brother is swinging from the ceiling. You're consumed by the maggots-- life bursts from your rotting stomach in the form of blowflies.

You consider it a courtesy for your lungs to decay before your suicidality consumes you, before it becomes so terribly and overwhelmingly obvious that you are the sort of horrible person that can't be saved or redeemed. You are the sort of horrible person that picks up smoking to cope with thinking about your brother in the shower. You wish your hands were mouths and teeth, you wish you could rip out your own throat. It's what you deserve. 

*

**_Blessed are those whose physical being matches their internal rot, for they will be made sacrifice. They will be lifted to the heavens, their blood kerosene for living fire._ **

You believe it. 

Or, you enjoy the thought of being lifted, of being burned. Cas says none of it is true, he doesn't even know where these people come from-- but they look _ethereal_. They wear the purest white, hold their hands out to you and the look in their eye says they _know_ you. 

And you know it's probably bullshit (it's always bullshit, or a spell, or a curse), but you can't help but feel there's _something_ truthful. Something about rotting. Like they can see all the sores on your vital organs. They can see the black hole that resides somewhere around your liver. You've spent so much time lately hiding from everyone that being seen nearly kills you, nearly brings the mud and shit to the surface of your skin.

You stay the night, for hunting purposes. You stop praying to Cas.

*

On your birthday you lie in the bed that was given to you by the people spouting fake bible verses (it's neat, white, hospital corners). You are no different here than you are anywhere else. You look up at the ceiling and you are a haunted house. You are the ghost. You are all mouth, you are all bleeding. You want to weld street signs into your skin just to have a sense of direction that isn't throwing yourself off a building or manifesting a bullet in your skull. You want to burn this house (and your body) alive. You want to build something new. 

You look at Sammy. He's awake, his eyes shining in the dark. You look at him and see everything you went to Hell for, every rhythm and beat of your life living and breathing in front of you. You two are not meant to have a normal life. You two are meant to be invisible to the public. Sam is anything but invisible to you. 

Sam looks back at you. He's grown up, really grown up, gone from a dorky college kid to massive, pensive, and a quiet sort of confident. As confident as you can be in a job that peels layers back of your soul and spits in the wounds. You look back up at the ceiling. 

You count the seconds, one after another, until you're officially made up of thirty years worth. Thirty years of running, and hiding, and killing. Thirty years of something you're not sure you'd call life. It's a tipping point. It's a threshold. You fall asleep to the sound of Sam's breathing, wanting to pull him across the line with you, wanting you to be the same age, made of the same stuff, completely intertwined. You fall asleep thinking about the Fourth of July, how he looked up at you like you were the coolest thing in the world and not some lost, worn-out soul, some secondhand body. You can't remember the last time he looked at you like that.

*

You dream about pulling out your own teeth. You dream about what it means to be blessed how they say, to be washed clean and lifted up. It's scorching. The fires of Hell, the wailing of Purgatory. A version of you, bright and pink, holds your face, says your name the same way Sam does. His eyes turn black. All your teeth are missing. 

When you see Sam, he's in a crisp white suit. He's smiling, but his face is all wrong, you can see all of his veins and none of them are pumping blood. Sam's dead. You look down at his coffin, at the rose he's holding against his chest in his masterfully preserved fingers. His nails are neat, not bitten raw how they sometimes are (when he's alive and when you're not dreaming). His face is peaceful and he stares back up at you with an almost happy expression. He's dead, and it doesn't feel wrong. You feel like you know how he died, somewhere in the back of your mind, in the back of your throat, but you can't quite reach it.

You lay a kiss on his forehead. You carry your guilt out of the room. 

*

It's been days and you still can't find anything paranormal. There has to be, you're sure of it. There has to be a hex bag, or a ghost, or _something_ to explain the knowledge behind these people's eyes. 

You get pulled into the center of a prayer circle. They lower you to your knees, and then to your back, and you figure, if there's nothing spooky going on, then this can't hurt. You close your eyes, lie still as they guide you into meditation, into your own inner psyche. You have never been well-acquainted with your unconscious because that means caring about who you are instead of filling in gaps with whatever people want from you. They ask you to embrace your inner monologue, understand where your thoughts are coming from. For the sake of immersion, you try.

A lot of it is Sam, flashes of his face, jokes he found so funny he couldn't stop laughing, pranks he pulled as a kid. And then it's you and your hands, and you're squeezing hard. And then it's you and a knife, and you can definitely taste blood. And then it's you-- But Sam doesn't know who you are. He doesn't look at you with betrayal as you rip out his beating heart. You open your eyes. 

A woman lays her hands on your stomach and she isn't liking _whatever_ she senses there. She closes your eyes for you, starts whispering. People murmur around you, hushed and concerned. She pulls her hands back and you can't help but open your eyes again. She says she always starts with the soulmate, to know people through a foil, and they're usually someone she's never seen before. But she knows your soulmate. He's the man you came with. The man you said was your brother.

The crowd goes deathly silent. She tells you to leave. 

*

Sam is glad to leave the place. He packs up his bag, glad to be rid of the white tunics, and soft humming, and women telling him they need to sleep with him in order to properly assess his spiritual energy. 

You think about shoving his head underwater. You think about what it means to be a soulmate. Two halves of the same whole. You think about how no one but Sam has ever felt permanent to you. _Soulmate_. What a fascinating way to describe it. 

*

According to fate, Sam is meant to be King of Hell. He has more demon blood flowing through his veins than water. It says something about you that he's your soulmate, something about what runs parallel through your veins. He's laying on his side of the room, a physical thing taking up physical space, and you wonder how you ended up in the middle of all this shit. You wish you could drag his doomed-to-die body out. 

Sam's laying on his side of the room, cradled perfectly by the lumpy motel mattress. The curve of his back slopes into the curve of his waist, into the curve of his ass, his thigh, and calf. His arms hold the pillow under his head, which is turned sideways towards you. He looks almost shy, almost like a girl offering herself to a date. You think, very briefly, about shoving your hands under his shirt the way you have to plenty of women in backrooms and motels just like this one. 

It wouldn't save him. It would only damn the both of you into a deeper circle of hell.

You think about Sam being one of those women. You think about shoving a cock (doesn't have to be yours) into _somewhere_. You don't want to think about the logistics. You don't want to think about Sam having anything but a pussy, having anything that you're not used to fucking. You think about Sam in a skirt. You promptly stop thinking about Sam, and skirts, and women.

You think, instead, about blood, how you're gonna get Sam to stop drinking the stuff. You think about him being clean. 

*

Sam's been poisoned since birth. There is no saving him. Bile will always form where there is a stomach to contain it, blood will always pool when a body is dying. By virtue of being your brother, Sam will always be rotting right alone with you. 

You feel like raw meat. Sam is the knife, and you are being torn apart. And you are staining him.

*

You throw up early in the morning, before Sam is even awake. You take it as a sign (everything is a sign lately) that you are pulling apart at the very core of your being. You smoke a whole pack that day. Sam keeps asking if you're okay, keeps bringing up Hell and the demon blood. You can't think about that. 

You wander to thoughts of skirts. Your waitress is tan and brunette and keeps leaning over your table. Her skirt is tight, ending right above her knees, her back curves perfectly, elegantly. Her hands are delicate, nails painted a cherry red, no ring on her finger. You think about giving her your number (you think about cutting off your dick and handing it to her). You order something with hashbrowns. 

Sam, in the mid-morning light, looks angelic. His skin practically shines. He sets his jaw and you can see every nerve that links bone to brain. You think of lying on your back and letting the image, clear as the sun itself, wash over you. You think about soulmates. He catches you staring, and you should feel shame, you should be disgusted. But you lean forward and under the eyes of God, you kiss him. 

You consider shooting yourself, or him, or everyone in the place-- Soaking this place in the blood that's so immaculately pumping through you. Or maybe you'll fuck him over the table, get it all out of your system, and then hang yourself with your own shoelaces. You're holding his face, and he's not moving away (he's not pushing you away). You feel complete.

*

You're dreaming. Sam is running in front of you, but he's holding your hand so you don't get lost. You both collapse in an empty field and your mouth tastes like peaches, and he tastes like cream. He's in a dress, something flowy and white, and it doesn't feel weird to be putting your hands up it. It suits him. His thighs are smooth as is his face (and his lips, and his tongue). You don't feel like you're breaking a law. You feel alive.

*

All you can think about are skirts. You ask Sam if he's ever worn one. He cracks a joke about the white tunics you both wore on the cult case. You shut your mouth.

*

The smoke in your lungs starts to feel unwelcome, and you start to feel so _impossibly_ hungry. You go home with any woman that looks at you. You picture Sam in whatever they're wearing. You think about purity and how you will always be the farthest thing from it. 

*

**_Blessed are those who indulge in their rot, for theirs is the dirt and the flies. Their flesh will be meals for the Earth. Blessed are those who bury themselves willingly and with grace, for their faith will be rewarded when fire comes. To give yourself, in body and soul, to let the maggots use you as feasting grounds is a virtue. The moral man is he who is willing to prostrate himself on his own grave._ **

You wish it was all that simple. 

But you're alone with Sam, in the heavy dark of a Southern summer, and you can hear his breathing. He opens his eyes and you can't look away. You could trace his bones in the dark, could find all his hidden doors with just your hands. You could give in. 

You confess, very simply, very directly. 

You've been thinking about skirts, pink, or black, or red, it doesn't matter. You've been thinking about how they'd frame Sam's thighs, how he would look with those high socks wrapped around his legs. They called him your soulmate, and instead of you picturing a life with him, taking up the family business and whatever, you're picturing him hairless and beautiful. 

Sam doesn't know what soulmate means either. And, well, he's never thought of wearing a skirt but (his voice is quiet, hesitant) he's done plenty of things he never thought of doing. He kissed you. Or, you kissed him. In public. He doesn't know what soulmate means, not exactly, but-- It could mean two brothers who are stuck together, sometimes against their will, not ever putting something in front of the other. It could be mid-toned motels and gray-scaled road trips to haunted towns. It could be knowing someone so completely that it becomes easy to hate them. He says he doesn't hate you, though. You're his big brother.

*

Sam buys a white skirt (white as daisies, white as those sweeping tunics). It's pleated and short (shorter than anything you've ever seen him in). You feel so far away from the rot, from the blowflies swarming in your stomach. This is the boy you will die for, and he's standing in front of you looking like he belongs in a schoolgirl porn but without a single ounce of shamelessness that porn stars have. He's not quite sure how to stand, keeps undoing and redoing the top button of his shirt. You wonder how you could ever be scared to lose him.

*

You lay him out on the sheets, his warm, breathing flesh in stark contrast to the pale sheets. Summer does wonders for him. You peel him apart, one layer after another until he's stripped bare, skirt hiked up around his waist, face pressed in a pillow. He is different than anything you have ever fucked, the connections, the noises being almost entirely foreign to you. You feel essentially virginal. Daisy-pure. And Sam, while most certainly not being a virgin, makes the perfect image of one.

He lifts his hips, pulls his knees up, and your mouth is filling with spit, your hands not even on him yet. He sticks his fingers in his mouth unprompted-- There's the shamelessness. There's the grime, the filth residing in his stomach the same way it is yours. It's so hard sometimes to think that Sam was born from the same decaying house that you were, but in these moments, it's an all-consuming truth. He has his demon blood, you have your sores, your rot. 

This is Sam's complete and utter return to you as such. Spread out, with his fingers pushing inside himself, making sounds you've only ever heard in the dark when you were both pretending to be asleep. Sam is by no means a woman, and he isn't quite a man-- Or, this isn't quite what you've imagined would happen with men (you don't want to think about men), but he _is_ beautiful. He is something you'd like to encase in amber and stick on your dashboard. 

You lean over him, his fingers moving in a soft, unceasing rhythm inside himself. You can feel his joints moving against your cock (still in your jeans; you've been standing dead-still looking down at Sam pulling himself apart more successfully than you ever could). You press your tongue against his back, draw it down between his shoulder blades and the line of his spine. You feel somewhere between awake and alive, somewhere between alive and living. You feel both intensely present and in a world of shadows and concepts at the same time. Your blood is pounding in your ears, thick as a dead man's, too big for your heart or any other. 

But despite the filth and the sin, you don't feel an ounce of hate. You feel a sick sort of pleasure, the same you feel when you're four beers in at a shitty bar and the waitress, who is definitely into some weird shit, tells you she's off her shift in twenty minutes. The same you feel watching porn while Sam's picking up dinner and you know the door isn't locked. The kind you'll never dwell on because it ruins the fun. And life is short. And you've been through a lot in your life. Sam whines your name, and you hope it's the last thing you hear before dying, and it's a pleasurable thought.

*

You're inside Sam, clawing at him. He's whining, crying, your name a constant on his lips. You've never felt closer to another person. You think about sacrifice and how this, by contrast, is completely self-indulgent. You pull him back by his hair, wrap your hand around his throat (and you think about killing him, about scattering his blood across the motel room like holy water). You mix your spit with his, moving into him with no intention of ever leaving. You will crawl into him and make his body your grave. You will prostrate yourself or burn whatever needs to be burned to have Sam here, saying your name like you've died on a cross from him. 

*

He falls asleep just like that: skirt pooling around his legs, hair messy, covered in spit and full of your cum. You refuse to sleep, instead listening to the soft hums and sighs he makes while he sleeps. 

You wonder what your dad would think, definitely nothing good. You wonder what Sam fell asleep thinking, if he'll hate you in the morning, if he'll cry and scream and take off in a stolen car, or if he'll stay and kiss you open every night from here until he's crowned King of Hell. You think you'll wade into the ocean then, maybe slice yourself open and leave the motel staff to find you. Your open wound of a soul feels sated laying next to Sam right now, but you know it won't stay that calm.

But Sam wore a skirt for you, and he's said that you've opened doors for him, doors he would’ve never thought about peering behind. And you can believe he doesn't hate you. And you can believe that your Dad wouldn't kill you for ruining him. You will never become a cleansing fire, you will never be lifted up, but you will, one day, know about worms and flies burying themselves inside you. You figure that's good enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> please feel free to leave kudos and comments!! <3


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